


And So Everybody Lived

by Shinzu



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: OCs - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:00:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22298206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shinzu/pseuds/Shinzu
Summary: Havelock had planned to kill Pendleton and Martin that fateful night with the same poison that they’d tried to kill Corvo with, until an unruly child had broken in and changed everything. Now, they’re all in jail, and 10 months later, Corvo Attano still refuses to execute them.
Kudos: 14





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> *except Jessamine, unfortunately, because I don’t know how to handle that quite yet.
> 
> Hi! I’ve been working on this for a number of months. It includes heavy use of OCs, but I’ve tried to keep the major focus on the canon characters themselves. 
> 
> Please let me know what you think!

Coldridge Prison most certainly lived up to its name. The cells were damp and moldy, the air that drifted through was chilly and stale, and the prisoners were offered little more than the clothes they came in with and the sheets on their stiff and ancient beds. Even the food they were given was cold, but the fact that they gave them anything at all was some kind of a miracle, he thought. Of course, he was used to much more extravagant luxuries, but here in a cell, guarded by a few of the Royal Protector’s personal agents, he wasn’t going to complain. Could be worse. 

He could be dead, he guessed. And he owed it to the scraggly, disobedient child of his for busting in, out of seemingly nowhere, and claiming that the drinks were spiked with poison, which very well may have been the same poison they had given Corvo. There was some left over. Enough for at least two people.

And still, it could be worse. He could be placed next to Havelock, or worse so, Martin, who were both probably trying to sweet talk the guards or whatever other bullshit they managed to come up with in order to sneak out. There wasn’t any getting out, though, not for them at least. Probably not for him, either. What they pulled that night 7 months ago was risky, and they had failed what was barely in their favor anyway. Why lament about it? Well, he had nothing better to do. And he was sure it was 7 months since then by now. Or was it 8? 

Treavor hauled himself to his feet and approached the bars of the cell door, his arms crossed. “Excuse me? Can you remind me how long I’ve been in here.”

This was one of Corvo’s agents, one he’d seen around for some time now. A young man, scraggly-like. He looked Treavor up and down briefly, face devoid of any emotion or thought. “9 and a half months.” It was curt and short, definitive even. He decided he didn’t want to ask him anything else and stifled a small coughing fit.

So Treavor sat on the unyielding, musty mattress that made his skin itch and made imaginary patterns along the one bed sheet he was given. Maybe one day he’d be able to talk to someone more fun. Less stick-up-the-ass. All these guards seemed to be trained that way, to be such assholes, speaking as little to the prisoners as possible, to not encourage them or humor them. It made sense. Prisoners were prisoners, after all. 

But it wasn’t like he was allowed to have any visitors anyway, so why not try and at least be social? Most prisoners were allowed visitors, if they had anyone. Most were just street rats. He supposed he and his “buddies” were pretty high up there on the detainment list for being involved in a second kidnapping of the princess, if you could call it that. And he’d sure as hell had a bad feeling when he watched Havelock throw her into that tiny side room in the lighthouse and lock the door.

It must have been a game to the brute; he never threw out the key. He was trying to be the emperor, wasn’t he? Did he suspect all along that Corvo hadn’t actually been killed by the poison? Havelock was a man of many secrets, most of which he didn’t quite care to know. He got enough of those mind games growing up with the twins.

Treavor sighed and laid down on the bed, hands clasped in his lap. Even the pillow was cold and awful and he was sure that if he opened it up it would be moldy. Better than the ground, he told himself. Better than the dirt. Better than the streets. He’d forgotten by now what his actual bed had felt like, which was only another aspect of his old life that he’d sorely taken for granted. He hoped that one day he’d be able to sleep in a real bed again. 

He did not yet know if he was going to be here for a sentence or if he was to be publicly executed. Given that he hadn’t been executed yet, he hoped it was a sentence. Maybe a few years? Maybe he’d be able to see a bed again in his life.

So over dramatic, he thought.

“What time is it now?” Treavor asked out loud, not expecting a question back. Some guard schedules were consistent, some were not. The agents tended to be around most of the time, though there wasn’t much else to interrogate the trio about anymore. Not Treavor, at least. He was just a sad, lonely old noble—Havelock and Martin, on the other hand, were a silver mine of information if they could get it out of them. Havelock, the navy man who sailed the isles and manipulated dozens of people to his bidding. Martin, the highwayman they knew nothing about. He wasn’t a man of his word. Was he even really an Overseer? Treavor wondered that since the day they’d met, what, over a year ago now? 

He’d do well to never see them again.

No answer was given to him about the time so he sighed and rolled over. Corvo’s agents most likely stuck around for a quick easy buck. He couldn’t blame them, he’d do the same thing if he were in their position.

“Perhaps it’s noon. Or dusk. Or maybe it’s even 3 AM and our breakfast doesn’t come for five more hours.” Treavor raised an eyebrow, but of course, there wasn’t an answer. 

A cold draft weaved between the bars of the cell and he shuddered, reaching out to pull the measly little blanket over his shoulders. Here, he wasn’t allowed any tools for enrichment. He wished he had a book or newspaper or something, but this was a punishment after all. He would rather like anything to pass the time easier. Something better than counting scrapes in the walls and controlling his coughing fits.

“It’s 9 AM,” his guard finally said, which did indeed spook Treavor. He pressed his lips together. “You asked the same thing…” The agent pulled out a watch and looked into the cell. “An hour ago. When you ate breakfast.”

Right. 

Cold, hard biscuits. 

Treavor clicked his tongue and looked back at the wall, running his finger along the indents between each of the bricks that made the cell. That’s right. He’d eaten them just fine. Every day. For 9 months. Stale throw outs from the local bakeries and for lunch was bread and eels. At least it was somewhat filling. It’s not like he could lose much more weight anyway.

He rolled over and looked at the ceiling where a cold, dim light swung against the breeze. Someone must’ve opened the door again. Overseers and members of princess Emily’s court and some of Corvo’s personal associates would stop by here and there, for a variety of reasons.

What he wasn’t expecting was the man himself, the Royal Protector, Corvo Attano who Treavor thought he’d killed nearly 10 months ago now. Treavor let out a breath and rolled back over to face the wall, his arms crossed under the covers like a stubborn child. 

“There’s the Royal Protector himself,” Treavor said, a sharpness in his voice. Mocking. He was mocking Corvo.

The agent was sent away, though Corvo was flanked by two guards. Compared to 10 months ago, when they’d been confronted at the island, Corvo seemed to be doing rather well; there was a fullness in his face, one of a man who’d fought hell and finally had a few meals. The deep bags under his eyes had never gone away though, and he no longer donned that thick back coat, instead wearing a finely sewn vest, shirt, and a glove on his left hand. His hair looked longer and shinier, pinned back against his head. Treavor could see the weapons hanging off his belt, like his fancy folding sword, a pistol, the crossbow on his wrist. Fashion change, or an intimidation tactic? He didn’t want to know.

Corvo waved his hand and one of the guards unlocked the door. Treavor squinted at him as it slid open with a few chunks and a click as it hit the other wall. His overhead light reflected off the weapons, drawing his eye to them.

“Looks like you need a haircut,” Corvo mused, taking a step into the cell. He clasped his hands behind his back and the two guards stepped back on either side of the cell door. 

“I need a lot of shit, but thanks.”

He simply blinked at Treavor and glanced around the cell. “I remember being in here. Long six months that was. Of course though, they were trying to kill me. And torture me. Seems like for everything you say you need you’ve toughed it out here pretty well.”

Treavor rolled his eyes. “Not a whole lot to say or do here. You should know that /pretty well/.”

“You best watch your tongue, Pendelton.” Corvo waved a hand and the two guards stepped into the cell. They each walked to either side of the man and, grabbing both of his arms, yanked him up out of bed.

“What the hell are you doing now?!” Treavor tried to pull his arms away, but he was scrawny and weak. The clothes he’d been thrown in there with hung off of him loosely and slipped under their grip. The energy he expended to do that sent him into a coughing fit. The guards simply adjusted their hands and dragged him out of the cell. He could barely keep up. “What, is this where I die? Finally decided on an end to the Pendleton family?”

“We all know you have other family,” Corvo said.

Guard Number 1, on his left, elbowed him. Treavor coughed and hung his head, watching feet hit the ground as they marched him down the hall.

No one said anything until they were at the bottom floor. They passed many people who Treavor did not recognize, mostly because no one could see each other through the walls. Though some had shared cells, separated by bars, or were roomed together. Mostly street thugs, really. It was those people who needed that tighter security that got the treatment Treavor was given in the upper levels of the prison.

He was pulled through a dusty, walled-in courtyard crawling with wolf hounds and toward the interrogation room. That wasn’t the execution room, which had Treavor hopeful that whatever they had him for wasn’t going to be the end of the world. To make it even better, the door was already closed, and he amused himself by imagining Martin in there with one of his Overseer pals.

They pulled him toward the big front doors. They were closed, locked with the large mechanisms that crawled along the interior walls of the prison. Treavor couldn’t help but wonder what they were going to do to him. Maybe throw him off the bridge? With his skeletal body he’d probably die right there and then. Or maybe they were going to feed him to the wolfhounds, or take him to the forest to be eaten by a bear.

Treavor rolled his shoulders when he felt the grip on his arms loosen. He knew if he tried to ask Corvo anything at this point he’d be given the silent treatment, so he stood and watched. 

And ruined the moment by coughing. He almost doubled over, shielding his eyes from the light as Corvo hit a switch and the doors clanked open.

It was like he was blinded. The light was so strong, a crystal-clear day in Dunwall, not a single cloud in the blue, blue sky and no rain to be seen. And the blast of crisp, cold winter air hit him like a sack of potatoes, leaving him breathless. For having been here for 9 and a half months, his eyes had gotten used to the darkness. 

“Fortunately, the twins will be remaining in the mines.” Corvo wandered in front of them, tipping his head a little bit to view Treavor’s face better. “They are still punishable for being involved in the initial kidnapping of Emily Kaldwin among other things.”

“I don’t particularly care about them but thanks for the update anyway.” Treavor looked away. Guard Number 2 grabbed him by the back of his collar and yanked it so he was standing up and looking Corvo dead on. “So what is it you’ve got me in for then? Death by drowning? Wolves? Maybe a bear?” He blew a lock of hair out of his eyes. He still could barely see. Every surface was like metal shining under a blazing sun and Corvo was just a silhouette against the sky.

Corvo remained cool and collected. “Why don’t you wait until I’m done speaking?”

“I mean, you didn’t really interrupt me or tell me to stop.”

“Because I never forgot my manners.” He shrugged. “Let him go now. He can’t really run away at this point.”

Treavor almost collapsed when the guards let go and he realized how much they were supporting him. Sure, he paced his cell a lot, but he also sat a lot. And laid down a lot. Any strength he had before being imprisoned was gone. Damn near atrophied.

Corvo turned on one heel, gesturing for him to follow. “I think it’s a lovely day, don’t you?” he asked, looking over his shoulder. Treavor followed him gingerly, jumping at every falling leaf or twig like a startled child, like he’d just gotten in trouble for something stupid and was afraid that his father or brother were lurking right around the corner. “Normally by this time of year it’d be snowing. And then turn to slush. I think it’s quite nice. Chilly but refreshing.”

“Of course,” Treavor grumbled through his teeth. He decided he didn’t want to be outside anymore. It was cold, his clothes thin and ratty and dirty, and they didn’t help much against the biting wind. “Can we get to the point, though? Surely you’ve brought me, a prisoner, out here into the public for good reason.”

The only answer he’d gotten though was a shrug. Treavor crossed his arms against himself and tried to rub his upper arms. Everything outside looked surreal, from the ocean, to the river, to the plants and scraggly grass that grew on the cliff side. From the sun’s position, the prison cast a large shadow across the road, dropping the temperature farther.

He hated it. He hated how the gentle swaying of the trees taunted him and how bright and beautiful the sky looked today. He hated how squirrels and birds bounced from tree to bush and rock. Even the bridge he hated for producing a cold metallic sound as the heel of Corvo’s boot hit it with a solid thud.

Up ahead, around the bend, he could hear two whispering voices. He steeled himself for what was to come, but one sounded particularly feminine, the other quite young, and he couldn’t quite pin who they were from this far away. Corvo stopped, waving at whoever they were, and turned around to face Treavor. Footsteps approached them.

“By order of Emily Kaldwin, you have been released from prison, and are now under house arrest. You will be checked on daily. Our empress has pulled a lot to be able to help her friend out. And we will discuss this further later on.”

“What?” It was all dizzying. Someone rushed past Corvo and slammed into him, crying profusely, and Treavor looked down to a splash of bright red, silky hair tied in a loose braid. He could barely hold himself up,couldn’t see well, but he certainly knew who this was. It was Abigail, one of the Golden Cat girls, and one of the few women he’d ever truly loved. The only woman he’d ever had to keep secret, even from people he trusted. He’d never been able to proclaim his love in public because of his brothers and now Treavor hugged her so tight, as if he’d lose her again at any moment.

He looked over her shoulder, rubbing her back gently to try and stop her from weeping, and saw the cold amber gaze of the 11 year old boy—wait, he’d be 12 now wouldn’t he? The boy’s hair had grown a little bit, now reaching just past his shoulders, and he wore a proper outfit for trainees new to the Dunwall patrol. Treavor blinked a few times and glanced down.

“Ab- Abigail. Abi. I’m so sorry.”

The woman leaned back, her brown eyes full of tears, her usually pale cheeks rubbed raw and red. And she looked angry, her lips pressed tightly together. She was never angry. And then she punched him a few times in the chest, knocking the wind out of him. 

“You’re so stupid! Why did you think you could just go out and do that?” Abigail lost her steam, and grabbed his vest instead. “You better say that it was manipulation! Havelock forced you too. There’s no way you would have really done that!”

Treavor let out a breath and sighed. He grabbed her hands and pulled them away from him, holding Abigail at a distance.“No. I was involved in all of it. I was right to be there, at Coldridge.”

Abigail sniffed a few times and leaned her head against his chest. She was bundled up in a soft red coat she had made herself many years ago, with a thick brown patterned scarf around her face. Her breath was heavy and he could see it disappear in the wind. “Why are nobles so stupid. Every last one of you. I hate you! You and Morgan and Rolland and Waverly and—”

“It’s okay. I’ll make it up to you somehow, Abigail, I promise.” 

Corvo stepped in then, putting a hand on Abigail’s shoulder. She hung her head. “She offered to keep an eye on you. Her and Wallace.”

He perked up a little bit. “That bastard is alive?”

“By some miracle, and thanks to Sokolov and Pierro’s help. You guys missed.” Corvo shrugged a bit, turning to look up toward Dunwall tower. He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “He has offered to watch over you as well, to give me updates. Don’t pull anything stupid and this might go easier on everyone. I’m not one willing to kill.” His posture seemed stiffer, and Treavor guessed that he didn’t like the idea of him being out of prison. 

“Yes. I will uh—“ Treavor coughed, and cleared his throat. “I will do my best.”

Abigail punched him again in the chest. “You will do it right! Do it right or not at all! I can’t lose you again. Please.”

Treavor wrapped his arms around her and nodded. He didn’t quite feel grounded. This was all entirely out of the realm of possibilities he had imagined. “Okay,” he whispered. “You won’t lose me again.”

“She came all the way back from Tyvia,” Corvo said, standing a few feet away, as if trying to make him feel guiltier with a steady gaze and his head held high. Again he had his hands behind his back, but gestured with his right hand to the angry boy standing behind him. “He pleaded with Emily over and over for many months.You have a good family, Pendelton.”

He said nothing to Corvo. He wanted this moment to last forever, just him and Abigail, and the boy too. 

——-

“Alright, you hobo, sit down and stay still.” 

This was pathetic, how far he had fallen while in prison. It was barely 10 months, and his hair had grown disgustingly long, his weight dropped to an almost deadly point, none of the clothes he had fit well anymore, and they had barely fit well when he was wearing them regularly to begin with. The only good part since getting home was that he’d been shoved unceremoniously into a hot bath that one of the servants had prepared on his way home.

It was nice, for once. To have a bath and to be warm were simple things he’d taken for granted. 

Abigail appeared behind him in the mirror, resting her chin on his shoulder as she opened and closed the scissors a handful of times with quiet snips. With her other hand she picked at his shirt, trying to find a way that it fit best, so it wasn’t hanging off of his collarbone. “You look like your brothers with your hair, and we can’t really have that now, can we?” Treavor focused on how her hair cascaded over her shoulder rather than how the scissors were far too close to his neck for comfort.

“Abigail, we’re brothers. Of course we look alike.” Treavor studied his face in the mirror. His hair was longer now, a little wavy, his face even more skeletal than it ever was before, if one could believe that. Paler, too. His cheekbones jotted out. He looked more exhausted than he ever had in his life despite spending all his time doing nothing. He sighed, turning his gaze from the mirror. He was getting older.

“No, it’s all in your hair. If I brush it like this…” Abigail combed his hair over a bit, “you definitely look like Custis. If Custis had longer hair. So! We can’t have that.” She dumped a cup of water over his head to start combing, startling him. It was cold! “You know, without the twins...no one really lived here. The servants, I guess, but a lot of them moved on to households that could pay. Wallace and Myra stayed, when he was better. Some sort of...pledge, I think.”

Treavor cleared his throat. “Yes. That’s how Wallace works. I think he’d rather die than be away from me.”

“And he almost did.” Abigail was rolling with the punches now, not letting him forget a single detail of what he caused. It must have been a tag team between Corvo, Wallace, and the remaining servants who filled her in on everything that happened. That one girl who worked for Havelock? He wondered where she went. Perhaps she was still at the pub. “While I was gone, he spent time with Darrius. Corvo protected him, you know. I thought he was safer with you until…”

His face fell. “I’m sorry. I got...I got caught up. When we started, I didn’t know it would snowball into that. But he was safer at the pub than trying to avoid the twins when they stormed the home.”

Hair started to fall around him. His head already felt lighter. “I should’ve taken Darrius with me to Tyvia,” Abigail mumbled, tears in her eyes. “As soon as the twins were found unconscious in their rooms, I ran. The only thing holding me back, and the only thing keeping me here like a locked up bird, was gone.” 

Her voice sounded angrier. Treavor stared at the scissors in the mirror and started to fear for his life. An angry wife with scissors near his neck wasn’t quite the best possible situation he could think of.

“Abigail. Please. We can discuss this later when you don’t have scissors in your hands.”

Blinking, Abigail stood up straight, and raised an eyebrow. “I’m not going to kill you.”

“No.” He swallowed, squirming in his chair. “But if you do get angry you have a very good thing to stab with and a very fragile thing /to/ stab.”

From behind them came laughter. They both turned around, Treavor anchoring himself with the armrest, and his face fell again when he saw Wallace. He’d placed some fresher clothes on the table in the corner and laughed again. Treavor was startled by how scraggly he looked since the last time he saw Wallace, face a little thinner, shuffling softly as if he could barely walk. “Be careful, Lord Pendelton. She’s a viper sometimes.”

Abigail stuck out her tongue at him and shook her head. “I’m only a viper when I need to be.”

“This is coming from the woman I’ve never seen nor heard of being mad before.” Treavor swallowed and faced forward, nudging Abigail so she would start with the haircut again. It was already looking at least a little nicer. Less like the two idiots who’d tormented him his whole life, at least, and that was what the goal here was.

“Well, when you’re done here, we have some dinner. Admittedly, it isn’t the best.” Wallace had shed his thick coat, wearing a dress shirt and a faded blue vest. The house was warm, almost stiflingly so. “I imagine you understand.”

Treavor tried not to nod as Abigail got to work again. “Yes. Whatever you’ve cooked is fine.”

“That’s wonderful. Hopefully come spring or next autumn Abigail’s garden has some excellent harvests.” Wallace meandered out of the room, shutting the door tightly behind him. 

The silence by now was almost deafening. There were so many things that Treavor wanted to ask her, his hands digging into his thighs hard enough to bruise them. His head was still swimming; in the past 3 hours, he’d been yanked out of the prison, reunited with the family he’d had to keep secret for years, and given a proper bath for the first time since back at the Houndspit Pub. Had it really only been three hours? It felt like a lifetime.

His manor seemed so foreign to him. What was wrong with him? He’d seen summer houses and family friends homes fewer times than that. Once every few years, maybe, depending on where they were going. Why was this so different? It’s not like the house had changed at all. It was just a little dusty, or a lot dusty when the sun rays filled the room through gently drifting curtains. The paintings needed dusting, the floors swept throughout as it looked like it’d been blown about with debris from outside.

This room was a dressing room of sorts, where his mother had spent quite a bit of time hiding from his father and thinking. It must be where Abigail spent a lot of her time too, as it was one of the cleanest parts of the house. Abigail’s clothing was hung up in the closet, and the counter beside the mirror was full of different perfumes, lotions, and soaps she’d collected over the years. That meant it smelled nice here, like the fields of lavender and dandelion up north, and Treavor reveled in it. 

Oh how he wanted to speak. To say something to Abigail. But his words wouldn’t come to him and he watched silently as she cut his hair farther and farther down. And it was a little shorter now than it was before he’d gotten tossed in prison, but it felt light, and it felt right. 

“I figure by summer it’ll be a little more comfortable.” Abigail placed a hand on his shoulder and he almost jumped. She pulled back. “Bathed, shaved, and now a good haircut. You don’t look half bad now.”

“Did I look that bad getting out of Coldridge?”

Abigail clicked her tongue and glanced away. “Honest truth?”

“Honest truth is that I looked fabulous.”

She snorted and smacked his shoulder with the comb. He couldn’t help but grin and leaned back in the chair, looking up at her. “Why don’t you…” He paused. “Why don’t you tell me everything that’s happened in the past 10 months? With...the house, Wallace and Myra, you, Darrius, parliament, the empress…” He cleared his throat. “I didn’t get to hear a lot in prison.”

“I suppose not. Corvo is now the Royal Spymaster and Protector.” Abigail brushed the comb through his hair and loose cut strands fell to the floor. “Parliament is going about as well as you can imagine having come back from the plague. Darrius is...well.” She smiled a little bit. “He’s your son.” 

Treavor knew she was being rather vague. Why? He didn’t know. “How come you’ve been here instead of the Golden Cat?”

“Who wouldn’t want to live in a big, cold, empty house?” Abigail brushed off his shoulders and set the scissors and comb down. “Alright, go on. We should get to dinner now. Wallace has it ready and waiting.”

“I must ask, what is it?”

Abigail was silent for a moment as she grabbed a knitted shawl and adjusted her braid. “Potato soup. Some bread and butter.”

“Will Darrius be there…?”

She shook her head. She gestured for him to follow and walked steadily through the hall. It hadn’t changed much. Treavor knew this wing like the back of his hand. The paintings of family members present and distant hung on the wall, a handful of them having been taken down. He realized as he got to the stairs that many of the paintings missing were of his father or brothers, and for only a brief moment wondered where they could be. If he was to be honest, he didn’t mind them gone. It was preferable.

Home cooked meals were one of the things he’d missed the most. What the prison served was bland and stale. Potato stew and bread wasn’t exactly the most exciting meal, but it was warm at least, and he wasn’t going to argue that. 

The manor had a few places to eat, but today they’d chosen one of the smaller side dining rooms. Abigail invited Wallace and Myra to sit with them, something she asked so readily Treavor wondered if this was a daily occurrence, but both shook their heads as they placed two bowls and a plate of rolls and disappeared out the door. 

Abigail sighed. “They never want to eat with me,” she said softly, spinning her soup around with a spoon.

Treavor, unfortunately, wasn’t paying attention. He was looking around at how pristine and clean the little dining room was, as if it hadn’t just been abandoned for half a year. Actually, he wondered how long Abigail had been back from Tyvia. Was it just a few weeks? Months? It took quite some time to sail there or back. 

“Treavor? Hey, Treavor. What’s got you so quiet?” Abigail nudged him.

That brought him back to reality, if only a little bit. “Nothing. Don’t worry about it. I’m sorry if I don’t eat much, the prison had me on a pretty shitty diet.”

“I understand.” She smiled at him and he realized how much he missed that smile. 

“I may go lay down. This is all...overwhelming. I’m sorry.”

“Want me to take you upstairs?” Abigail was already getting up. She didn’t seem to know how to act with him when they weren’t in a private room. He cut her some slack; all of their interactions up until this point had been in an alley or a private room of the Golden Cat, and though he knew he could sit here with her almost all he wanted nowadays, probably, it was much different for her. All of this was different. 

He needed a few moments to himself. “It’s okay, Abi. Have some dinner. It’s tasty, and if you want more, you can have the rest of mine.” He reached out and took a roll though, hauling himself to his feet and making his way back toward the stairs. “Thank you though.”

“Oh, alright. See you soon, Lord Pendelton.” She smiled again.


	2. Chapter 2

Martin watched as the door was thrust open and two Overseers stepped into the room. One was distinctly shorter than the other, while the taller of the two carried the tool that branded traitors and heretics. He grabbed a string from the light hanging above and approached Martin with a sureness and confidence in his step. The way he bounced the other end of the branding iron in his hand told him all that he needed to know.

This Overseer had been looking forward to this moment. Given that all the warfare Overseers tended to look the same in uniform, he had learned slight gestures from each and every one of them for work out on the field. Smith was alright; they agreed they needed change in the Abbey, but he was usually drunk, and he figured he had his own ways to keep within the Abbey. Kyren was a huge raging dick who’d gotten him locked in chains outside of the HIgh Overseer’s office with Jasper’s help and rarely spoke. And when he did, it certainly wasn't to him. Martin doubted he had much of a brain when it came to matters outside of the Abbey, but who was he kidding? The guy could be smart, as long as it was involving the group. Rothwild, the forgotten little brother, was like one of Kyren's little pet projects, another man he didn't care for. Eager to please, a suck up.

These two in front of him were ones he didn’t often see but were still permanent residents at the office. The taller of the two must have been Zamir, who held his own secrets while being tight lipped and hard to read. He mostly kept to himself, though stuck around Kyren quite a bit, and was primarily stationed as a music player at popular, lively locations. He was not afraid to use the music box as a brute force weapon if it came to it. And the shorter must be Kirkor, obvious by his stature and the slight bounce in his step. A Tyvian, having been snagged from his home in northern Gristol when he was barely nine years old to partake in the Trials of Aptitude. He must’ve been nineteen, maybe. Just a boy. But like Kyren, he was a special kind of idiot, far less notable than his partner there, and had spent quite some time in the kennels with the wolfhounds. If Martin remembered right, Kirkor was just starting to be sent out as a handler. 

So...nothing too spectacular.

There were handfuls of veteran Overseers who could have been here in this moment. He should be grateful is was just these two, but something about Zamir’s posture rattled him in the tiniest way. 

He drummed his fingers on the arms of the chair, too-tight leather straps digging into his wrists. He tried to duck away from the shock of a light in a dark room. “Took you lot far too long to get to me.” He raised his head. “I thought you’d have visited me as soon as they threw me in here. It’s only been ten months.”

Zamir swung the iron around to jam it against the desk’s surface. He gestured for Kirkor to start the fire. “Forgive us. We had to complete the Feast of Painted Kettles, first, as you very well know.” His voice, usually quite feminine, had a particular bite to it. Martin leaned back in his chair. “I would have invited our dear friend Kyren, but he was busy, and I thought it’d be a better punishment for you to live. Our new high overseer isn't keen on is slaughtering everyone."

“You sure do talk a lot, brother Zamir.” Martin tipped his head, looking directly into the cold empty eyes of the mask he wore. “You don’t need a whole monologue just to brand me. I had enough of that with Farley, unfortunately.”

He smacked Martin with the iron. “I’m letting you live. Sure this is unconventional, but had brother Kyren come in my place, he would have killed you as soon as they let him inside and shut the door.” 

Martin sucked in a breath and gritted his teeth. His cheek was cut and small drops of blood rolled down his face. That man, Kyren, had never done anything that didn’t involve the Abbey. He’d never seen a more devoted man in his life, but Zamir was right. Ten months in prison had been a blessing. If Kyren had shown up, he would’ve been strangled to death, if not worse. 

“Alright. You got me. So you’re going to let me live as some kind of punishment.” Martin shrugged, tugging on the straps. “Let me ask you this, Zamir. Do you enjoy this?”

Zamir didn’t speak. The tiny interrogation room was lit up more as Kirkor kindled a small fire in the corner. They’d come prepared, Martin realized, and he wondered if Kyren wasn’t involved because Zamir wanted his way with him. Kyren must have been doing something quite important to have passed up the opportunity.

What information did he know off-hand about Zamir? 

He swallowed. “So what’s the plan here? You’re going to brand me, throw me out on the street, and be done with it? We all know the punishments for harboring a branded man.”

The fire flickered and caught his eye. Zamir inhaled slowly and pulled off his mask, setting it gently on the desk where the iron had sat moments before. He swung a chair around to sit beside the fire and stuck the iron into the flame. He even slowly nudged a few chunks of wood as if to make a point with the resulting sparks.

“I guess you know the drill,” he said, shrugging. He pulled the balaclava off and threw it to the side, his hair messy. Overseers didn’t typically act so casual, loose, and off-putting, but they didn’t usually smack their prisoners with the branding iron either. “There really isn't much of a plan to it. You get branded, you leave, and you become an enemy of the isles per Emily Kaldwin.”

“Lovely. I look forward to it. It’ll be like I’m 20 again!” Martin scoffed, wiggling the chair around to face Zamir. “You know that torture isn’t the way of the Abbey, though, correct?”

Zamir turned and looked at him, squinting. The angle of the fire had him looking rather sinister, casting long shadows over most of his angled face. “No one has to know what happened once we leave this room," he threatened, looking back at the fire. Kirkor sat next to him, kneeling down with his hands on his knees, obediently quiet. Martin guessed it was a training session. “No one will believe the branded, no matter what you say.”

"They may not believe the branded but we all have our secrets and our power. I still have all of those lies from Campbell’s black book memorized, brother Zamir.” Martin lifted his head. “More than just family with whalers, right? Brother Kyren could forgive blood, but what about lying? Maybe our sisters could have their way with you."

Zamir knew what he meant by those words and his shoulders stiffened. Martin knew the truth and now he was stuck. He didn’t speak, and Martin could see him visibly holding back, jaw clenched.

The Overseer was onto him and kept skillfully silent.

Waiting was pure agony. Just watching the fire flicker and burn brought up a feeling of dread. He could do months or years in prison, and he had a small network to get him broken out once he found a guard willing to work with him. It wouldn’t exactly be with the same grace as when they’d helped Corvo, and he’d have to make sure the Overseers weren’t around the cell, but it was something. And he got his stale biscuits and broth and a few cans of fish here and there. He had a bed. He could stick it out.

But knowing this was coming, and that Zamir was putting on a show to goad him on? It infuriated him. He had to plan to get out of this. Pressuring Zamir was proving to be nearly impossible in the short amount of time he had. Martin gritted his teeth together and damn near snarled at Zamir.

“Why don’t you answer me?”

“I don’t answer to traitors.”

“You were just a moment ago.”

Zamir tipped his head back. “And I decided I no longer wanted to. You’re making this harder on yourself, Martin.” He got up, handing the iron to Kirkor, and meandered over behind Martin’s chair. He put his hands on the back of the chair. “I’m done playing games with you.”

He yanked the chair around to face himself and gestured to Kirkor for the branding iron. 

Kirkor hopped up and swiftly brought it to him, taking a few steps back with his hands behind his back respectfully. Zamir studied the iron for but a moment and looked at Martin.

Martin gritted his teeth, watching the iron come down. Oh, he definitely wasn’t ready for this. It burned like nothing he’d ever felt before, so hot his face nearly went numb, and a few whimpers escaped his throat. He tried to just see it through, to be quiet and get it over with by smashing his face farther into it, but this here felt like an eternity. Zamir was dragging it on.

Prison was the easier punishment here, he kept reminding himself. But he was strong. He’d been through worse shit. It would be over soon.

He didn’t know what was worse; the burning, or the smell. He gripped the armrests he was strapped to and tried to pull his head back, only to get it pressed firmly into his face once more.

“Enough! Don’t you think that’s enough!?”

His pleas didn’t work. Zamir pushed forward, staring at him with cold dead eyes that seemed to look right through him. Moments later, he pulled away, dunking the iron into a bucket of water Kirkor provided. Steam rose from it with a hiss. Martin thought he saw steam off his own /face/.

He sucked in a few breaths. His head hung for one moment, two moments, three, and then he looked up at Zamir. 

“Have fun?” 

Zamir walked past him, and that breeze coming off of him stung on his hot, blistering face. He tried to turn around in his chair to see where he was going and he stood there beside Kirkor, fixing up the balaclava and mask on his face. “I did what I needed to do. Kirkor.”

Both of them came to either side of Martin and began to undo the straps that kept him down. He wasn’t going to run. His thoughts were shot with the pain that covered his face; he could barely keep himself steady on his feet. Zamir waved a hand and the door slid open. 

Each one grabbed one of Martin’s arms. They hauled him out of the seat, his head hanging, and marched him out of the interrogation room.

A dozen Overseers stood around, watching silently. It was shameful, really, but Martin had plans to bounce back. Whether he was in Dunwall or not didn't matter. He just needed to figure out where he was going after this and what he was going to do. 

First he needed bandages. Some kind of ointment. Tea. Something to take away the pain, but would anyone serve him? Cosmos willing, he should’ve just accepted a swift death back at the lighthouse. If it wasn’t for Pendleton’s shitty kid busting in and Corvo nearby to hold back Havelock, he would’ve had the poison and been done with this life. Oh, he wished that’s how it happened.

The Overseers continued to stare at him. Martin had just enough strength to lift up his head as the door opened with chunks and clangs. 

He flinched. The freezing, frigid air was too much. It felt good against the burn, but it agitated it, and his vision nearly went white. 

Unfortunately, he didn’t have any time to actually enjoy it. Or do anything about it. Or try to regain his vision. He was marched across the bridge unceremoniously, getting jabbed in the back by the cool handle of the branding iron to keep going and not turn back. 

The bridge felt so long from this end. Everything was bright despite the dark, ominous clouds gathering over Dunwall Tower. He had to guess it was well below temperature to snow, with animals nestled away and not a single bird in the sky. Frost covered branches and crinkly leaves. His clothes, dirty and tattered and ugly, weren’t cared for enough to hold back the biting wind. Kirkor and Zamir appeared unfazed, probably decked from head to toe in standard winter under shirts and vests and wool pants.

He was let go when they crossed the bridge. He expected them to kick him over, but under the pubic, watchful eye of a figure standing up by the tower, they stepped back, staring at him.

“Get out of here, Martin. You are no longer welcome at the Abbey or Dunwall.”

Martin held his head high, or as high as he was capable of. He watched the figure above as two small children approached him and glanced down, and then he lowered his head again. It must be Corvo, Emily, and the only other child he could possibly guess was the brat who’d gotten him in this spot in the first place. 

“Farewell then, Zamir. Kirkor.” He spoke smoothly, taking one shaky step, and then another. 

First plan of action: bandages. Second plan of action: clothing. Dunwall wasn’t as cold as other places could be, and they didn’t typically need any Tyvian garments, but when it snowed, it was still an uncomfortable situation and even new pants and a coat would remedy that. 

He knew of a man in the flooded district who could possibly help him. His network was scattered as he last heard from a passing guard, but a handful still existed within the city. The flooded district and the slaughterhouses tended to be a little less frequented, but getting there was going to be a little bit of a challenge. Martin had to keep stopping and close his eyes through the breeze hitting his face, to then continue marching up the path toward the central districts of the city and clock tower. 

Keeping his face down, he didn’t have much trouble getting around. The only reason they threw him out of prison for the multitude of things he’d done—kidnapping, poisoning the Royal Protector who at the time was meant to be executed but was still alive when the tables turned, his multiple crimes from before he was Teague Martin—was because he couldn’t do much. 

Ultimately, his fate was in the hands of the Abbey, not the Empress. 

\--- 

Getting to the closest district was definitely a challenge, but he made it. Or, it was close enough that he was satisfied to say it was the district. He was cold and wet, and the snow was gently falling, but he was alive, if that was anything to boast about. He had to force his teeth to stop chattering and slid up against a wall that effectively blocked him from the wind.

Martin slid down against the wall into a crouch and leaned his head back. His face still stung. He needed some kind of bandages but he guessed that wasn't going to be happening any time soon. At least it wasn't bleeding or blistering too bad yet. 

He looked left and right. The district was starting to be rebuilt little by little. Not enough for anyone to live here anymore but enough that there was an obvious effort. Courtesy of Emily, he guessed.

"I thought you were told to leave Dunwall."

Oh that was a familiar voice. Martin glanced over out of the corner of his eye. "Corvo."

"Teague. You know, I cleared out the whalers a long time ago." Corvo stepped out of the shadows, his arms crossed. Martin noted how much fuller he looked from the last time they'd seen each other, the man no longer running on fumes and elixir. "There's no one here for you to find anymore."

Martin raised his eyebrows and gradually stood up. "Then what happened to that young man? Odell I believe his name was."

Corvo lifted his head. He stuffed his hands in fur lined pockets on his coat. "Odell, and the other whalers, are no longer any of your concern. Get out of here before the Overseers start busting people for you sticking around."

"Like they can do much more to me now. Took their sweet time anyway."

"It was a battle between me and the Vice Overseers who took care of you. I however have the authority to personally give orders to the Dunwall guard to take you out if you are spotted." 

"Incredible!" Martin scoffed and shoved past Corvo. "Shall I leave them a tip then? That their precious Spymaster shouldn't be trusted? I can recognize a mark a mile away, /you know/."

"And they won't believe you." He heard Corvo turn around, boots skidding against loose rock and gravel and wet slushy snow. "You are an enemy of the Abbey, Dunwall, and the Empress."

Martin spun around, facing Corvo. "So what are you going to do now? Hit me with your magic? Kill me? Sic the Outsider on me?"

He shrugged. "I was asked not to kill you. Yet. But we all know Overseers tend to follow their own agendas."

"I quite liked you more when you were quieter."

Snow fell heavy, blanketing what little of the flooded district was left uncovered by sea water. Martin and Corvo stared at each other for a long moment, neither of them turning away. 

"I don't want to see you in Dunwall anymore." Corvo turned and walked away. Martin watched as Corvo felt like he was far enough away he could blink inconspicuously. 

Maybe he did it on purpose. Corvo wasn't that stupid. 

Martin took in a breath and squared his shoulders. He'd be fine. Maybe he could make a run for Tyvia, as the operators didn't quite work on the same force as the Overseers and his branding might not matter to them. As if they'd probably care anyway; operators were terrifying and secretive. He'd most likely never see one ever in his life. He'd heard the stories and decided that he could maybe make it to a small village or town, where operators were less likely to be. 

Or perhaps they were everywhere. No one knew anything about them. He remembered multiple rumors and what-ifs floating about in the barracks at the High Overseer's office. 

Serkonos was a death sentence probably. And Morley? It technically was his home, but anyone he would have known would no longer be there. The Overseers operated in Morley as well. There were islands around the isles, maybe if he talked to a sailor one of them would lead him there. 

Or maybe no one would talk to him at all. Martin puffed out his cheeks and looked around the district at the big ruined buildings, flooded streets, and one of the rail cars zooming by overhead. 

A year ago he'd have had a plan like this ready in moments. A whole network of people who he could bend to his will. Coldridge made him soft. 

He heard a scratch of slipping feet nearby and spun around to face it. No one was there. Maybe the whalers hadn't been cleared out?

"Come out. It's not worth it to try and hide."

Fuck, he was getting cold. Martin stared off into the distance until he was sure no one was actually there and headed off toward Dunwall. He just needed a coat and a warm hat, and maybe he could sneak by without anyone questioning him. 

Martin trudged through slush and snow. He never stopped until he'd reached where he wanted to be; a poorer district, yes, but one that had fallen to the plague quickly and wasn't quite yet on the tables to be renovated. Sheets and wooden boards covered broken doors, crumbling arches, and balconies. 

He stepped around a pile of crates and ducked into one of the buildings. He didn't know if anyone patrolled the area so he had to be quiet at least. And maybe what he was looking for would be inside the building. 

Maybe, maybe, maybe. 

It's like every time he told himself that, his desires fell short. Building after building, every apartment had been looted. He tore through closets, washrooms, kitchens, basements. Street after street. 

He'd found a few useful things though. An abandoned pistol and some ammo. A hat. Nothing really in the way of coats. Or any other type of clothing for that matter. 

Could he get to the tailoring shops? It was most likely still ruled over by a nasty noble named Rolland and his squad of Hatter lackeys. Martin didn't want to get involved in that; Rolland was a sort of glass cannon, a depressed and anxious fool who panicked and ran and exploded at the first sign of aggression. Not someone he wanted to piss off right about now. It could have been fun if things were different. 

So he had to make do. Martin kept going through abandoned houses and apartments and shops well into the night, until the first sign of dawn came over the horizon. One building he avoided; there was a bad feeling about it, like the feeling of being watched from one of the topmost living quarters. 

Martin bowed his head and hurried on. He didn't stop for a few more blocks, until he found a boarded up shop that looked somewhat promising. He tore down one of the boarded up doors and shimmied inside, looking through what he could with the sliver of rising sun casting a ray of light onto the floor. 

He found a few cans of fish, which he begrudgingly took, and surprisingly enough, in the very back, a handful of clothes thrown about. He was a bit more broad in the chest than others, but the clothes were a little bigger than he was and for that, he was grateful. No coat, but he buttoned up the dress shirt and threw on some pants, pulling his wet and sticking Overseer get-up off raw skin. 

The clothes were old and a little musty. But he accepted this. They were dry, and a little warmer, and he pulled out a pair of gloves from under the dresser. It looked like these people had left in a hurry, and he guessed they were fleeing the weepers. 

When the sun was up high enough, and after Martin had chowed down on some of this god awful fish, he left the shop. He wasn't exactly warm by any means but it was better than soaked wool. 

"Hey! You!" Martin's voice was trembling from the cold as someone darted by, but he was loud enough for the mysterious person to stop. "Tell me the way to the docks!"

The woman paused and looked over her shoulder. From there she most likely couldn't see the branding and pointed. "It's that way. Near the tower." And then she was gone. 

Martin shook his head. He turned and walked down the street she pointed out and kept his head low. This was dangerous territory right now. Sailors were out and about, civilians on their early morning strolls, snow still falling gently with clouds going on for as far as the eye could see, blending into the ocean's horizon. A classic Dunwall winter day.

He ducked behind a few buildings and vehicles. The tower now cast a large shadow over the city and if he was careful, he could stick close and skirt around it to where the docks were. Guards weren’t exactly too heavy there, at least not yet. Most were patrolling the river.

A handful of people were walking toward the docks. Women with their baskets and men chatting cheerily. Martin darted out and followed them.

No one noticed. Or seemed to notice. 

Martin swallowed. He looked around carefully. He saw something move in the corner of his eye and he turned to look. 

A familiar alarm rang overhead. A handful of people stopped to listen to the announcement. Martin kept his ears open.

“The Abbey of the Everyman has announced the new High Overseer.”

Martin pressed his lips together. It took them this long to do so? Surely it hadn’t. 

“We now introduce Yul Khulan.”

That wasn’t Kyren.

That huge beast of a man hadn’t been chosen? Wasn’t that what he was working toward? It was when Martin knew him at least. 

He thought to the fleeting feelings he’d gotten of being watched. Had he turned down the offer of High Overseer to hunt him down?

This definitely wasn’t good. Martin was an enemy of the Overseers now, and a criminal—Kyren most definitely wouldn’t feel any shame in a public execution. This wave of panic wasn’t quite his style, a rarely felt emotion, but he almost couldn’t help it. He pulled his hat down farther and shoved through the crowd. He had to get off of Gristol immediately. 

“Sir? Good morning, sir.” Martin cleared his throat, approaching what looked to be a fisherman surrounded by at least 9 people ranging from teenager to full fledged adult. Serkonan, given the style of their clothing. Possibly descended from Morley refugees. “Hi, sorry, I didn’t know if you heard me over the crowd.”

The tanned man looked up, raising an eyebrow. He hauled a large net of hagfish. “Oh, good morning.”

Martin didn’t want to raise his head to speak to him, but did so anyway. “Do you know of anyone who could possibly give this poor man a ride to Tyvia?”

He studied Martin, looking him up and down. Martin stood still. “No. I’m sorry, we can’t help you.”

“Why not?”

“We aren’t a free ferry.” The man rested his boot on a crate. “And we definitely don’t help the branded.”

“I will not cause any problems after this.”

The man shook his head again. A short, sickly looking girl, a shock of white skin among her family, approached what Martin guessed was her father, the fisherman, and took the net away. For someone looking so small and frail he was definitely surprised to see her haul it away with ease. 

“We are fishermen. I can’t ruin my family’s life if you end up doing something stupid.” 

Martin squinted. “And how do you know I’ll end up doing something stupid?”

“Listen.” The man tipped his hat back, looking at Martin dead in the eyes. He spoke over the roar of the ocean now. “I’m taking precautions. Why don’t you see if there’s any connections from the Serkonan black market? Two hands on the side of the boat, probably.”

Martin scoffed. “Absolutely not. I’m not trying to get to Serkonos.”

The man was obviously thinking. But he still shook his head. “If the Overseers don’t catch you, I’m sure the operators will figure out something’s up. Your face is awful, sir.”

“How very kind of you.” 

“Come back in the Month of Songs,” the fisherman grumbled, lowering his voice. “Might be able to help on Fugue Feast, but I can’t promise anything. Can’t promise you’ll live that long sticking around here.”

What a fucking waste of time. Martin rolled his eyes. “Fine. We’ll see. And for the record I don’t think we actually killed people for this. ” He spun around, walking off that particular dock. He felt the eyes of all those kids staring directly at him, but he was already too far away to hear what any of them were saying. 

Martin tried a dozen other captains and fisherman and what not. Some wouldn’t speak to him. Others threatened to throw him into the ocean. He managed to learn that this was the Month of High Cold, but he’d already guessed that by how heavily the snow was falling. 

He would have to head north. In a town a couple day’s travel away, he knew someone who could help him get what he needed. And soon, he would /need/ bandages. He didn’t want to think about the blisters and charred skin and how much it cracked and stung when he made any sort of expression. So he hurried. He didn't run because the guard would stop him and ask what he was up to, so he walked a quick but inconspicuous pace to the northern gates. 

Once, a long time ago, he had been a highwayman. Holding up travelers and ambushing unsuspecting nobles. It had done him well then. 

"Good evening," Martin greeted to the guards as he came to the frosty gates to the city. They glanced at him, but did not speak. Easier to let him go; they weren't supposed to interact, killing or attacking was never quite the Abbey’s way.

He still wished he was dead. Be easier to slam down that drink than to deal with all of this. He could have been a nobody. 

But now he was a nobody. He was nothing. Everything he'd had before was gone. He was born into nothing and to nothing he would return.


End file.
